


Slander and double-speak

by Apatheia_Jane



Category: Top Gear (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:59:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apatheia_Jane/pseuds/Apatheia_Jane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic to break writers block. Song is Photobooth by Death Cab for Cutie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slander and double-speak

_constant quarrelling, the childish fits, and our clothes in a pile on the ottoman_

Jeremy had retreated to the Portakabin to change into his drysuit, just pushing down his jeans when Richard burst in, ranting and dripping everywhere. He's shivering bad enough to be stuttering, peeling rubber and the polyester undersuit down to his waist, then grabbing a towel and briskly rubbing himself down while going on about how he was never going to drive a flooded car ever again, and couldn't they get warm water, and why can't they go back to driving fast shiny cars, why won't anyone believe he's fine? Jeremy is frozen holding his jeans around his thighs like an idiot, forcing himself not to panic and pull them up like a schoolboy caught jerking off behind the boatshed but unable to just casually step out of them either. There's a wet and half-naked Richard Hammond standing far too close to him, and the big brown eyes that are half the reason they have any women watching the show at all are pleading with him and demanding an answer, and to Jeremy's horror, he can't respond with anything remotely appropriate. The only coherent thought he has right now is I am so fucked, and that's no help at all.

 

 

_all the slander and double speak were only foolish attempts to show you did not mean anything_

Richard was used to smiling for the cameras and censoring himself, but he was running out of comebacks that he could use on television. Not that Jeremy was letting that stop him, he was like a record that skipped between homosexual and tiny and teeth whitened and then happily started back at the beginning again, and Richard was starting to seriously wonder if Jeremy was broken. He'd ask James, except that James seemed to have done the smart thing and made himself scarce to work on his rust heap (honestly, he didn't seem to get the idea that their purchases were meant to be rubbish enough to be entertaining for the audience, but still actually drivable). And besides, James'd say that obviously Jeremy'd gone mad, all evidence pointing to sometime before they'd met him. Richard couldn't really argue with that (there's no other explanation for him buying his GT back off Ford, or his irrational ban on motorbikes), but it didn't explain why Jeremy'd started getting shifty and defensive for no apparent reason. He hoped it wasn't some sort of mid-life crisis related insecurity, because the common cure was buying ridiculously expensive cars, and Jeremy already had that one well and truly covered.

 

 

_ but the blatant proof was your lips touching mine_

Richard had joked with James that the only reason Jeremy would make so many jokes about their respective shirt-lifting proclivities was just so no one would suspect Jeremy's secret cottaging habits or an affair with Simon Cowell, but he'd never actually believed it. So when he finds Jeremy sitting alone in a darkened room, he wanders over to have a chat, and is caught completely off-guard when Jeremy pulls him down onto his lap. A large calloused hand cups his face and an arm snakes round his waist pulling him close, and he can feel warm whiskey-flavoured breath on his face and then Jeremy's lips pressing insistently to his. His arms flail, then settle palm down on Jeremy's chest. Unsure of how to react (it's Jeremy, his unhelpful brain supplies, as if that clears everything right up), Richard lets Jeremy kiss him for long seconds before pushing off Jeremy's chest, trying (literally) to keep him at arm's length. He takes a shaky breath, and just looks, trying to gauge Jeremy's mood, trying to see guilt or laughter or hope, anything that you might see when someone has just made a thoroughly unexpected pass at you. But he can't make anything out in the dim light, and they're both staring at each other, breathing too heavily with Richard still sitting like a child on daddy's lap, and if anyone came in right now this'd be very awkward. It's that thought that makes Richard scramble back, and instead of saying “what the fuck was that?” he says, “I just came to let you know Andy was looking for you,” and beats a hasty retreat.

 

 

_and everything that I said was true as the flashes blinded us in the photobooth_

Yet another of Auntie's meet and greets, and once again, Richard's on his second coke and Jeremy's on his sixth pint, not slurring his words yet but touching Richard just a little too much, and murmuring increasingly filthy suggestions in his ear. Most of them would require leaving the party as soon as possible, which Richard is frankly in favour of, and he tries to ignore the accompanying details. It's the suggestions that they don't leave that get to him, like _I'd love to bend you over that drinks table_, or _I'd tie your hands to that_, standing behind him and stooping to rest his arm on Richard's shoulder as he points at an antique wall lamp in front of them, _strip you completely, and I'd suck your cock on my knees in front of all these people_. Richard's always known Jeremy gets like this when he's had a few, has seen him with Francie who takes it gracefully in her stride, and barmaids and celebrities whose reactions range from flattered to looking like they're trying to decide whether it's worth pressing charges. He's just never known what it felt like to have the Clarkson attention focused so blatantly on him, and he absolutely does not want to make a scene, but he can't get the image of Jeremy Clarkson publicly sucking cock out of his mind. He's uncomfortable, horribly aware of the number of cameras in the room, the number of journalists who would take the slightest excuse for a vicious rumour-filled article about Jeremy Clarkson, and he hisses things to Jeremy like “there's people watching,” and “this is a mistake,” and “Christ, that's Piers Morgan,” but Jeremy's never been able to back away from a bad idea.

 

 

_ well I lost track when those words were said, you took the wheel and you steered us into my bed_

Richard has no idea how this could have happened, but somehow he went from fending off a drunk Jeremy and trying not to let him destroy his reputation too much, to back in his London flat with the cliched clothing trail from the front door to the bedroom. He remembers having the intention of getting Jeremy away from the cameras to somewhere he can safely sleep it off, which is what he usually does when Jeremy is about to do something more stupid than usual, but he somehow forgot to take into account that getting him alone was exactly what Jeremy wanted. And now he has a very amorous and forceful Jeremy holding his hips down, teasing him with nipping bites to his belly and Richard is clenching his jaw and genuinely close to begging, Jeremy, please, just suck it, and maybe Jeremy hears him somehow because he finally does, and Richard's mouth falls open and what comes out is a littany of _Jeremy yes_.

 

 

_and soon we woke and I walked you home and it was pretty clear that it was hardly love_.

Richard woke with a snoring behemoth draped over him, and unsure what to do about it. He half-wrenched his arm off getting it free, waking Jeremy in the process. They stared at each other for a moment, Richard still rubbing his arm, then Jeremy lurched upwards towards the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. The red lights on the dresser blinked 5:39. Richard sighed, pulled on a pair of pants and headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. When Jeremy finally joined him, Richard handed him a coffee and ducked round him to take his turn in the bathroom.

In the shower, he tried to think about what came next. He'd drop Jeremy back at his car, and then Jeremy would drive himself back home to wife and kids. He should have called Francie last night, just a quick call to let her know that Jeremy was safe with him and wouldn't be coming home. And she wouldn't have thought anything of it, because it's hardly the first time Jeremy's got drunk and one of his mates took him home for his own good. And if he and Jeremy were to make a habit of this, she'd go on not suspecting a thing, because, honestly, who would? And Mindy... well, Richard had some other commitments in London, and wasn't going to be back in Gloucestershire for nearly a week, and that was pretty much standard these days. But that was his problem, and the thing was, he liked Francie. He liked going round to the Clarkson home for dinner. He'd find it difficult to laugh with Jeremy's family if he knew about a secret affair, and he really couldn't wrap his head around how he'd cope with actually being the other participant in a secret affair. He shut the tap off, and took a deep breath.

Back in the kitchen, Jeremy was sitting at the table, head down and holding his empty mug like his life depended on it. Richard poured himself another cup, and sat down.

“I'll drop you back in a bit, I just wanted to say a few things first. I'm not going to ask whether you have a thing for me, or if you were just drunk and up for a shag. I don't care, I don't want to know. I'm not going to ask what you want to do now, I'm going to tell you. This isn't happening again. I'm married, you're married, and you can get up to whatever you want but don't involve me ever again. We don't talk about this, we don't need to make a big deal about it, but I am more serious than I have ever been, not ever again, ok mate?”

Jeremy hadn't lifted his head, and had waited out Richard's speech without reacting. Richard held his breath, and worried for a moment that Jeremy had passed out upright and he'd have to say it all over again. And then Jeremy lifted his head, and looked Richard in the eye as scornfully as if Richard had just told him he was buying an Accent, and Richard couldn't help but flinch.

“Come on mate, that little speech was hardly necessary. In my right mind, I'd be biting my fist the whole time, because it's the only way I'd be able to keep from laughing. I had no idea you were so tiny everywhere. Do you really think I'd be in any hurry for a repeat?”

Richard was stunned for a moment. “Right. That's... good, then. Right. Well, I'll just grab my keys then,” and pushed himself away from the table and into the hall.

Behind him, Jeremy buried his face in his hands.

 

 

_you were so condescending, and this is all that's left, scraping paper to document_

Richard used to think he had the best job in the world. Advance access to supercars he'd otherwise never be able to touch and somehow getting paid large sums of money as well, mates mucking round with rockets and races and outrageous ideas that shouldn't work and sometimes do. He figured eventually they'd run out of ideas and decide to leave before it became rubbish (or they'd just get progressively more self-indulgent until no one was watching any more and they got binned). Alternatives included someone telling Jeremy he couldn't do something, and he'd run off and do it with his own funds somewhere else, or a challenge that horribly killed them all. After Richard's accident, it had been so important to him to come back to work as soon as possible, sooner, to not let the rollercoaster ride without him. It had never occurred to him that someday he might just not want to be a part of it any more.

They're on their fifth straight take of the news, the first three binned because Jeremy said something hideously offensive even by his standards, and the fourth because Richard had snapped at an innocuous comment about legroom. James was looking increasingly miserable and bewildered, a mask of hair shuffling through spec sheets and not talking to either of them. The audience, after the initial thrill of seeing something too naughty for television, seemed to actually be getting bored, like guests who'd been promised a dinner party and instead got to watch spouses argue over whose job it had been to set the table. It had been weeks since that night, and Jeremy had been vicious and distant and whatever Richard tried only seemed to make it worse. Richard was so fucking sick of it, so fucking sick of Jeremy, and he was suddenly heartbreakingly sure that all the shiniest and fastest toys the world had to offer wasn't enough to hold them together.

 

 

_and this is all that's left, the empty bottles, spent cigarettes, so pack a change of clothes 'cause its time to move on_

They'd thrown a party for him at the studio, probably Andy's idea. Jeremy had shouted everyone into submission long enough to anounce he was going to make a speech, which Richard had been half-expecting and dreading all night. Somehow he'd found out about the offers from Dancing with the Stars and I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!, and wished Richard well in his lofty new ventures. All Richard could think was, _of course anything's going to be shit after Top Gear_, and, _this is all your fault you bastard_. James came up and stood awkwardly by his side, and Richard resolved to find a moment before he left to thank James for being his friend, his ally, to apologise for leaving the way he wasn't going to apologise to anyone else, and to insist that he was always welcome to drop by. Jeremy had launched into a list of rubbish and ambitious things that they couldn't have done without Richard, and everyone was laughing and despite himself, Richard felt genuinely nostalgic. Jeremy's speech had absolutely no hint of _I'm sorry_ or _I'll miss you_ that Richard could make out (and yes, he was listening for it, although not hopefully, he told himself, because he'd made his decision), even though he was pretty sure they were both true. And after he'd said goodbye to all the crew, done his best to make sure James knew how sorry and grateful he was and had eaten all the cake he could stand, he drove home, and his dogs came running down the driveway to meet him, wagging their tails.


End file.
